


Love Live The Queen

by zeffyamethyst



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/M, because this is James Bond we're talking about here, to no one's surprise there is some suggestion of a powerplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeffyamethyst/pseuds/zeffyamethyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steel and silk and blood and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Live The Queen

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Let's Make Out ficathon](http://ivoryandgold.livejournal.com/50034.html?page=2#t1283954). Un-beta'd

Every M deals with the Double-Os the same way. It must be something that comes with the mantle, or something learned at the feet of their predecessor. At some point, a switch flips in their head and they realise there is only one method to avoid insanity by Double-O.

James has outlived two Ms--the record is held by the Double-O Three in the seventies who survived four leadership turmoils--and he feels he's become an expert on the bloody lot of them. If he had to put words to it, it's somewhere between parental indulgence and steely schoolmarm. 

"Out of my chair, Double O-Seven," Moneypenny says, undeniably an order though her voice remains serene

James yields the field with a gracious smirk and pushes away from the desk. He stands and slides past Moneypenny, smells honeysuckle and imagines the scent of gunpowder threaded through. It fills his nose. Settles at the back of his tongue. Steel and silk and blood and everything nice.

Moneypenny smiles at him. It's a slow, vicious curl of the corner of her lips and James wonders, not for the first time, if Ms can also read minds. 

He leans back against the desk as Moneypenny sits down. She crosses her legs, proper posture maintained even as her back touches the chair's. In her dark blue dress and even darker jacket, she looks like she belongs there, bears the weight of history with panache, with gravitas. James wouldn't mind dying for her. More importantly, he wouldn't mind killing for her. Might enjoy it even. 

"Well now, the king is dead," James says. 

Moneypenny doesn't finish it for him. She wraps his tie around her hand instead. Once. Twice. Pulls. 

James goes. 

Because it pleases him to. Because it pleases her. James is, in the end, a bulldog looking for a master. An orphan desperate to belong. Maybe his shirt collar feels tighter. Maybe it's harder to breathe. Maybe he doesn't mind that at all. 

"On your knees," Moneypenny says, without inflection. As if she is commenting on the state of the weather. James doesn't try to stop that flare of something hot and sweet low in his belly. He revels in the fiction of cloth against his hardening cock, brought about by the act of going down onto his knees. A pass of tongue over lips as he thinks about how she'll taste. It's equal parts desire and the need to tear away that perfect facade. Somethings are better broken, and Moneypenny is one of them. 

She smiles. "Good boy."

She pulls again but this time James resists. It would be good for her to remember he wears this leash willingly. Their eyes meet over Moneypenny's clenched fist, and he waits, the smirk sitting comfortably on his face. 

"Don't make me shoot you," Moneypenny says patiently. 

James decides he likes this part of her the best, the part that makes sick, morbid jokes and reminds him that he's as mortal as the rest of them. He likes it enough to give in. 

On her lips he tastes steel and honeysuckle and blood and a promise.


End file.
